


For Your Viewing Pleasure

by GraphicAvengers, softerontheotherside (GraphicAvengers)



Category: Pushing Daisies
Genre: Chubby Ned, F/M, Feeding Kink, Weight Gain, i just think they're cute - Freeform, what do you want me to say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphicAvengers/pseuds/GraphicAvengers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphicAvengers/pseuds/softerontheotherside
Summary: Look, Ned knows he's put on some weight over the past year or so. It doesn't bother him-- if anything, it's fitting for a baker, right? So, it's really not a big deal at all where he's concerned. Chuck, on the other hand, might have some slightly stronger feelings about it...In which Ned is a soft boy, and Chuck appreciates it more than a little bit.
Relationships: Charlotte "Chuck" Charles/Ned
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

Ned has never been one for birthdays. That is, much like many other things, the trauma of his childhood and the lack of caring adults present had long since ruined the concept of birthdays.

Before Chuck came along, he hadn't celebrated it in well over a decade. Olive had certainly tried to get the date out of him, but he'd never given in; thus, she had randomly declared February 2nd to be Celebrate Ned day, and insisted on bringing him gifts on said day. Gifts, usually meaning homemade food that Ned would either stretch for days, or consume all at once in a desperate bid for the comfort of feeling loved.

Chuck, though, knows Ned's birthday isn't until June 14th. She had apparently informed Olive and Emerson, the latter showing up that day with a begrudgingly given birthday bonus.

"Spend it on somethin' pretty," he'd said, with his signature smile that said  _ I'd rather be anywhere but here right now. _

Olive, for her part, had sung him happy birthday while he cowered away from her in the corner of the kitchen. "I'll send Chuck over with a fresh pot of your favorite," she'd finished, beaming.

Ned, though mortified by the singing, is secretly very excited by her promise; after all, no one makes a macaroni and cheese quite like Olive does. His favorite, as she well knows, is the kind with fresh mushrooms and garlic, laden with gooey vermont white cheddar, havarti, and smoked gruyere cheeses.

Thankfully, these two varyingly enthusiastic displays are the extent of birthday celebrations from Emerson and Olive. Chuck, on the other hand, seems to just be getting started when he closes down the Pie Hole and makes for the stairs.

"You go right on ahead," she says with a wry smile, after he notices her lingering, "I'll be up in just a few minutes with your surprise."

Now, Ned suspects this surprise may be pie-related-- he wonders if it's anything to do with the conversation they'd had the other night.

"If you could have any pie in the entire world, what would it be?" She'd asked, as she handed over a bowl of ice cream.

The answer was, of course, his mother's apple cinnamon pie. But that wasn't what Chuck was looking for, obviously, so Ned had dodged answering. Now, he can see that she had probably been trying to decide what to make him.

Well, he has no doubt it will be delicious, regardless.

It takes Chuck a while to come up, so Ned takes his time showering. There's a knock at the door, just as he finishes putting on his pajamas. It's not Chuck; she'd have just let herself in with her key. Thus, he figures it must be Olive making good on her promise of dinner.

When he opens the door, the smell of garlic and cheese and mushrooms hits him full force. Swallowing harshly, he manages to say, "Hi."

Olive grins, "Hi yourself!"

Stepping aside to let her in, Ned's eyes drop to the dish in her arms. His jaw drops when he realizes that there's not just a little bit of mac and cheese, but an entire dutch oven full of it.

"That quantity of macaroni may be considered a health risk, you know," he says, as he follows her into the kitchen. The pot makes a disconcertingly heavy thud when she puts it down on the table.

"I've seen you handle worse," Olive replies, winking. Fast as a dart, she reaches out and fondly pats the side of his belly. "Remember the power outage a few summers ago? Three tubs of ice cream and two icebox cakes. And that was before Chuck!"

Ned blinks, fighting not to acknowledge the heat in his cheeks. Lanky or not, he's always been taller than average with a healthy appetite to match. It's only gotten worse in the last year or so, coinciding with his recent roundness.

"Before Chuck?" He echoes, confused.

Olive pauses a moment, and then laughs the laugh of someone who pities you deeply. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?" He responds, and then backtracks as her eyebrows raise. "Yes, I know I've gotten… Cushier. But what does that have to do with Chuck?"

Olive actually coos this time, and Ned defensively crosses his arms. In this position, he can acutely feel both the softness of his chest, and the swell of his belly. His arms certainly have some squish to them, too.

"Oh, honey," she says, "That girl feeds you up like you're a prized pig, and winning the blue ribbon is her last chance at saving her family's farm."

And, well. Ned doesn't have much to say to that. Partially because he's engulfed in a hot wave of embarrassment, and partially because it's not really true.

...Is it?

"Oh, good grief," he mutters, because suddenly he's realizing how often Chuck pushes seconds on him. Or more likely thirds, nowadays. She's been so tactile, slipping on silky gloves to give him belly rubs whenever he eats too much. Which is increasingly often, of late. He's developed a handful of contributing habits: finishing Chuck's plates for her when she takes too much food, baking new recipes with fresh fruit so that he can try them himself, being the taste tester for Chuck's various pie-related experiments-- she likes him to be extra thorough, which almost always leads to him eating over half of a 9 inch pie. And she's the one who suggested using fresh fruit in recipe development, too. He hadn't been wild about the idea at first, still stingy about the idea of buying expensive fresh produce, but she'd eventually talked him around.

And right now she's downstairs, baking him a special pie for his birthday.

"Well, I'd better get back to Pigby," Olive says, nearly breaking him out of his stupor. Still, he just stares at her, dumbfounded. "I'll leave you to your pasta and existential crisis. Happy birthday, Ned!"

With that, she departs, far too cheerily for how she just dropped a huge bomb on him.  _ Huge is right,  _ Ned thinks, a hand subconsciously coming up to cup the underside of his belly. It's unbelievably soft, empty as it is, and textured with rows of reddish stretch marks.

His stomach chooses then to grumble and churn, reminded him that he hasn't eaten in hours.

Ned eyes the pot of pasta in front of him. Swiftly, he gets a spoon, and then decides to forgo a bowl as anxiety tightens in his chest.

Prepared to stress eat until he can confront Chuck with this new information, Ned plops himself down at the table and digs in.

  
  


By the time Chuck sweeps into the apartment, Ned is well over halfway through the massive pot of rich, cheesy relief.

"Oh, good," she says, smiling, "I wasn't sure if Olive would beat me here, I'm glad she did!"

Ned looks up at her as she enters, chubby cheeks even rounder than usual, stuffed full of creamy pasta. As he swallows the admittedly generous bite, he feels his cheeks go warm. "Chuck! You're here!"

"I'm here," Chuck confirms, and then sidles up to the table with a pie plate in hand. "And I hope you're ready for some dessert!"

While she talks, Ned absently shovels another bite of pasta into his mouth, and then flushes deeper for it when he can't respond to her right away. Though, he doesn't think she minds, because he catches her eyes going wide as her ears turn light pink.

"Take your time," she says, and it's a little bit breathier than usual.

Ned blinks at her, processing her reaction. Swallowing thickly, he says, "I've probably had enough pasta… dessert sounds nice, though."

Truth be told, it really does. Granted, he's already about full, pasta sitting heavy and warm in his belly. But something sweet to cut the savory richness of dinner sounds like a nice break.

Something flashes across Chuck's face, then, and Ned silently curses his lack of innate ability to read people well.

"Are you sure?" She leans over, peering into the pot. "Oh, it'd be silly to save such a small amount."

Ned coughs, skeptical. There's at least a full serving for a normal person left.

"You can finish, if you want to," Chuck continues, meeting his gaze with an electric light in her eyes, "The pie could stand to chill a little bit longer, anyways…"

"Thanks," he says, quietly, and then, "Some wine might make it go down easier."

Chuck brightens with excitement, and turns away to procure him a glass and bottle. Ned gathers another large spoonful of pasta as he watches her put the pie away and dance around the kitchen.

It's funny-- She's not pushing any more than usual, but, well. This has become usual, and it's sort of disorienting to realize how quickly he's ready to agree. It makes him think of Simone and her clicker, the way Emerson just immediately obeys her beck and call.

Olive was right, wasn't she?

It's all Ned can think about, as he steadily works his way through the rest of the pasta and half a bottle of wine. Chuck sits across from him, watching and alternating between silence and idle storytelling. He's too busy to contribute much to the conversation, after all.

With the combination of wine and ulterior motives, it takes Ned less than ten minutes to polish off the rest of the pasta.

“Last bite,” he says, as casually as he can, before sliding it into his mouth. It’s not exactly piping hot anymore, but a sip of wine makes the last of the macaroni go down without a fight.

Chuck’s breath hitches audibly, and for a moment Ned is alarmed. But then he looks up, and sees her staring at him with awe, her cheeks flushed bright pink. He stifles a burp, then, and feels his own face go warm to match hers. Hastily, Chuck clears her throat and stands, whisking the pot away to fill it with warm water in the sink.

Ned sinks back in his chair, hand on his full belly, and looks at her. He watches as she grabs at the lip of the counter and takes a long, deep breath. Biting his lip, he weighs (pun unintended, but privately appreciated nonetheless) his options for a moment.

Eventually, instead of saying anything smooth or clever, his nerves take over and he blurts out, “You really do like it!”

Chuck whips around, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Her blue eyes are wild, but she’s surprisingly composed. For a second, it seems like she’s going to defend herself. But then, as her eyes flicker down to his bloated stomach, then to the pot in the sink, and back to his face, she seems to change her mind.

“I do like it,” Chuck admits, her voice hopeful and soft, “I like it a lot, actually. Do you?”

Ned huffs a laugh at how ridiculous this situation is. Then, hesitantly, he says, “I don’t… Not like it? That is to say--” He cuts off with a soft burp, and Chuck gasps quietly, her eyes immediately going back down to his belly. “...I’m a bit surprised, but… But I’m not opposed.”

“Oh, Ned, really?” Chuck hurries over to his side, “It’s not too weird?”

“Chuck,” he says, smiling, “We kiss through saran wrap because I brought you back from the dead. Weird is kind of our whole thing, isn’t it?”

Chuck grins, then, and it’s bursting with love and warmth. It’s the kind of smile that makes Ned’s heart feel like it’s melting. “You may have a point there,” she acquiesces, “So, dessert?”

Ned laughs, palming at his own belly. It’s still soft, signaling that while he’s pretty full, he’s far from his limit. And he always has room for pie. He tells Chuck as much, and she springs to life, retrieving the pie and a fresh fork to eat it with. She pauses briefly at the cupboard that houses the plates and bowls, and then skips past it with a devilish smirk.

Setting the pie plate down in front of Ned, she says, “Triple chocolate fudge with salted caramel mousse. I read about it in a gourmet magazine.”

Simply put, it smells delectable. He can imagine the layers now, of rich dark chocolate and zippy caramel. As Ned digs his fork in, Chuck takes the seat opposite once more.

“You don’t have to eat the whole thing, obviously,” she says, going faintly pink again. When he looks at her expectantly, her lips quirk and she adds, “Though I’d sure love to see you try.”

Warm, gooey love glows in Ned’s belly like so much cheese, and he smiles. “Any chance I can get this ala mode?”

Chuck lights up like he just gave her the best Christmas present the world has ever seen, and obliges his request in record time.

Halfway through the pie (which is much easier to get down than he’d expected, likely due to how damn delicious it is,) Ned has to relinquish his fork and catch his breath, finishing off the bottle of wine in an attempt to take the edge off. This pause only prompts Chuck to dig out a long-handled spoon and help him out. In the end, he manages to finish the pie, along with a generous heaping of ice cream. It leaves him sore and tipsy, with his shirt hitched high upon his bloated belly. Everything is fuzzy and heavy and warm, and Chuck’s eyes are aglow with wonder.

And when he’s stumbling to bed in an achy, overfull haze with her gingerly leading the way, he thinks,  _ Worth it. _

He can only imagine the face she’ll make when he asks her to do it again, tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> listen this is mainly fluff. it's just been one of those days. the next chapter is gonna get into... more detail *ahem*
> 
> also there's a brief allusion to ned being on the ace spectrum bc as a kinky ace i literally cannot help myself

It's funny, how natural this all seems. One might think that Ned, having been a skinny kid and an even skinnier young adult, would be struggling to adjust to suddenly being so… Well, _not skinny_.

But he's not; in fact, he's beginning to wonder if this wasn't his intended form all along. Somehow it just. Makes sense. Like baking pie, and being with Chuck. It's just meant to be, on some higher plane that's probably responsible for his magic finger, too.

Questions about fate aside, Ned thinks that it suits him. He's never really had much confidence in his body; it's hard to love the thing that seems to be the root of so much trauma. But like so many things, Chuck is changing that. And not just Chuck, but Olive, too. Even Emerson, in his own way.

(It feels like they're teaching Ned how to love all over again. And for the first time since he was a young, innocent child, Ned doesn't have to try so hard to love himself.)

It's so much easier, now, to look in the mirror. He can look at it, and instead of picking apart his scars, he can feel pride and say, _that's me. I did this. Chuck and I did this._

There's love in every single bit of pudge that clings to his frame. Which is quite a lot; he's shocked by how easily it all piles on, when you're doing it on purpose.

There's love in the roundness of his cheeks, in the blurry lines where his jaw used to be so sharp. There's love in the way his arms jiggle, and the softness of his chest. There's love in the roll where his hip squishes into his once defined ribs, and in the smaller one above that, too. There's love in the gentle curve of his tummy, and in his deepening belly button. There's love in his thighs, where they're still red from his pants chafing, and where they're dimpled with little stretch marks.

It's _everywhere._ And it's all his doing, in the end. No traumatic experience can claim credit; only sickeningly sweet love and trust and his weird little makeshift family.

Plus, well. He'd be lying by omission (his favored method, but that's beside the point) if he didn't acknowledge how exciting it all is.

There's an odd thrill, to blatantly disobeying societal expectations in the same breath as intrusive thoughts. It's not strictly a sexual thing, as far as he can tell-- even if it were, he's not sure he'd recognize it, for lack of comparison. Maybe that's what it is, though. Or maybe it's his own private version of rebellion against self-hatred. It could be the way Chuck adores every inch of extra he has. Or even just a simple desire for something untouched by tragedy and strife.

It's probably all of the above, if Ned's honest.

In the end, what matters is that he's happy. Chuck reiterates it so often that Ned almost worries that _she's_ not happy. But that's a silly thought, so he dismisses it every time.

He's learning that there doesn't need to be a hidden downside to everything. Sometimes, people just genuinely want to make sure you're doing alright.

Like right now.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Chuck asks, as she leans against the door frame.

Ned makes eye contact with her in the mirror, and immediately he feels his cheeks go warm. He's not even sure why, it's just that sometimes he gets slightly overwhelmed by how much his heart swells when he looks at her.

"You never need a penny," he says softly, and then flushes deeper because who even says that? "That is-- You can have my thoughts for free. Anytime. Consider me your one-stop shop for thoughts, open 24/7 as long as you're willing to provide a strong black tea after ten-thirty."

"Well then, Mr. One Stop Shop," Chuck replies, smiling fondly. "What's new today?'

Ned tucks his hands behind his back, and nods down to where his shirt is struggling for dear life. Chuck's expression twitches slightly when she looks, and then blooms into a grin.

"You look really good like this," she says, softly, reaching up to run her hand along the curve of his hip, "All sleepy and rumpled."

It's an accurate description, for Ned does feel halfway to falling asleep with his eyes open. And he's certainly rumpled; he's still wearing his day clothes, and napping on the couch hadn't done them any favors as far as neatness.

Ned looks in the mirror again as he thinks about it, and bites his lip. There's an unexplainable, toe-curling feeling of joy when he registers the way his buttons are straining around his belly. He feels like if he just ate enough, one or two would just pop right off.

The thought sends an actual shiver down his spine, and Chuck catches it. Frowning in concern, she takes a step back.

"Are you okay?" She asks. "You look woozy, do you feel feverish?"

"I'm fine," Ned blurts out, distracted.

His mind is caught on loop, replaying the thought over and over again.

He can imagine the sudden release of pressure, the sound of fabric and thread giving way.

_Oh, damn._

"Er," he stutters for a moment, then takes a measured breath.

Chuck is looking more worried by the second, twiddling her thumbs in order not to reach out. "Ned?"

Finally, the words line up and he spits out, "What if I broke the buttons off of this shirt?"

He's turned to face her properly now, so he can see her reaction in detail.

Her pupils contract and then expand, as she blinks hard. The tips of her ears go rosy, and two splotches of pink rise among her freckles. Her breathing gets choppy for a moment, before she lets out a soft little, "Oh."

Quickly, the stunned expression turns ecstatic. "Oh, Ned, that would be amazing! We could even keep the buttons, and track your progress that way!"

Ned's nerves evaporate just like that, as he imagines her painstakingly labelling each button with a date and weight. Smiling, he says, "It might take a few more pounds, you know."

"Oh, I know," Chuck agrees. She reaches up to play with a strained button, then pokes at the gap where his undershirt is exposed. "Unluckily for these guys, I just ordered a whole lot of pork buns from Dim Sum for us."

"I'm beginning to think that when you say 'us' you really mean 'me.'"

Chuck laughs, and her eyes twinkle mischievously. "I'll have a couple."

"A couple," Ned repeats, "Which leaves me with how many?"

Humming, Chuck says, "You'll see," and then turns to leave the bathroom. "Going."

With a smile that very nearly hurts his cheeks, Ned steps into the hallway after her. "Following."

A week later, Ned is halfway through his fourth bowl of curry when there's a sharp snapping noise and a sudden sense of relief. And just like she said she would, Chuck dutifully tracks down both buttons (one from his shirt and one from his _former_ favorite pair of trousers.) Beaming with pride and adoration, she tacks them to a board on the wall of his bedroom. In small, neat writing, she marks down:

_August 9th, Large, 36, 243lbs_

It's ridiculous, completely  
  
It's perfect.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a minute-- i agonized over it for so long, since i wasn't 100% satisfied with the last chapter. on the upside, im much happier with this one! i hope you enjoy!

To Ned's surprise, he hits his first goal long before he suspected. He hits it so quickly, indeed, that he surpasses it without even noticing.

It's a Thursday in October, a few weeks before Halloween. Usually, he and Chuck do progress checks every week, but lately they've been so busy that it keeps slipping their minds. As of Tuesday, it'd been two weeks since the last date in Chuck's little tracking journal.

That in mind, it seems like the next logical step when Ned notices that his pajama shirt is officially too tight. It's been form-fitting for a while, to say the least, but now it's properly indecent. The sides pucker, fabric caught in the shallows of developing rolls. The fabric is taut against his shoulders and cutting uncomfortably into his arms. His belly button is a dark imprint against the grey cotton. Instead of covering his belly, it sorts of drapes awkwardly from the curve and exposes a bit of his remarkably fleshy muffin top.

So Ned bends over and slides the scale out from under the sink. He stubbornly tugs his shirt back down and, still failing to cover everything, feels himself blush. Which is surely ridiculous, considering he's alone.

Shaking away the thought, Ned turns on the scale and climbs on when it levels out.

_ 263.4 _

_ Oh. _

Oh, hell. That's a lot, isn't it? Is it? Maybe it's not, after all.

Ned can't quite discern what he's feeling. Is it disappointment? Shock? He's not as excited as he thought he'd be. All in all, he feels and is much bigger than he used to be. He knows this. He can feel it, and see it, all over himself.

...But it's not  _ that big.  _ Or maybe it's just not big enough?

Huh. Either way, he knows Chuck will want to know. She'll be thrilled enough for the both of them.

Well, she'll be over any minute with breakfast, no doubt. In the meantime, he might as well… further examine the situation.

And by "the situation," Ned means his body.

Whereas weighing in is usually an event, Ned prefers to keep physical check-ins more casual. Generally, if he passes a mirror, he'll stop to look for a minute. Not out of vanity, per say, but out of fascination.

And maybe a tiny bit of vanity, but he's allowed that, isn't he?

Still, for the week and a half he's been both too busy and too tired to strip down and really take stock. And that's plenty of time for things to change, in his experience.  _ Plenty. _

So, Ned peels off his too-tight shirt, and immediately comes to a halt. It's suddenly obvious how long a week and a half really is, when you're drinking a litre of milkshake every night.

He's not massive, by any means. But his belly sticks out proudly, curving gently over his waistband. The roll at his waist is deepened, certainly, wrapping further around his ribs than before. Hesitantly, he slips a hand up and into the roll, breath hitching as the entire top digits of his fingers disappear. He shakes it experimentally, and watches his reflection in awe as it sends a big ripple through his entire belly. There are even little tiny stretch marks on the roll, above and below it, arcing up his side from his hip. Ned exhales slowly, and watches his belly move with it. Biting his lip, he drops his hand and wiggles his body. The fat across his hips and his belly jiggles furiously, and his belly almost  _ sways. _

God, but he is soft, isn't he? Soft and so much  _ wider  _ than he expected. Every inch of him seems to be coated in plush fat. His hips pooch out so far, round and squishy and all marked up in red. Reaching up, he pinches lightly as his forming double chin. It mimics Chuck's phantom touch, reminds him of her soft satin gloves.

And  _ there's  _ the thrill.

She's going to be absolutely beaming with pride, when he tells her his weight. And that? Is enough.

After that, Ned has to force himself away from the enchantment of the mirror to get dressed before it's time to leave the apartment. If he takes a little bit of extra time getting dressed, it's certainly not in order to marvel at the way his pants barely make it up his thighs.

When Chuck shows up, Ned immediately informs her of the news.

He shouldn't be surprised that her first thought is, "Let's celebrate!"

"Celebrate how?" Ned asks. Is it really an occasion worth celebrating? It doesn't feel like that big of a deal, but maybe that's because 263 is less satisfying of a number than the 255 he'd expected. It doesn't do much for him, not like more grounded physicality does.

But Chuck seems… Ecstatic. If a bit flustered. As such, Ned can't help but feel a flutter of something warm in his gut.

"Do you really have to ask that question?" Chuck replies, grinning. "Pie!"

"Pie?"

"Pie," Chuck pats the side of his belly, sending a faint ripple through it. Seeing this, she grabs it more firmly and deliberately wobbles it. "Wow," she breathes, "I can't wait to see how many cup pies will fit into you now."

Ned's breath hitches. "Oh," he says, half-dumbly, "That's. That sounds… Good. Are you sure we can't just skip ahead to that part?"

"Patience is a virtue," Chuck says, teasingly.

Ned has to physically restrain himself from whining when she hooks her thumb into his belly button through his shirt.

"Patience," he mutters, somewhat breathlessly, "I can do patience."

"Good," Chuck lowers her voice, dropping into a whisper, "Because the wait will be well worth it, big guy."

_ Big guy?  _ This time, Ned can't help but let out a soft noise of pleasure and shock. Chuck catches it and laughs. Unfortunately, she also withdraws, leaving him struggling not to follow like a needy puppy.

"Patience," she repeats, the twinkle in her eye betraying that she knows damn well what she's doing, "Now come on, if we hurry then you won't have to rush through breakfast again!"

Ned thinks of the bellyache he'd had yesterday, after doing just that. She'd had to help him finish his omelette, and brewed him a special cup of digestive tea afterwards. Still, he'd been sluggish all morning, his body working overtime to digest the copious amount of breakfast foods he'd forced into it. It had been slightly miserable, but then again, Chuck had given him sympathetic belly rubs more than once. Maybe a repeat occurrence wouldn't be  _ so  _ bad…

In the end, Chuck ends up starting the day's pies while Ned finishes breakfast, so he does indeed have to wait until closing time for her undivided attention. And as it were, her undivided attention comes with an entire batch of assorted fruit cup pies.

"Blueberry lemon, classic peach, huckleberry pear, and apple with white cheddar," Chuck explains, as she gestures to each flavor.

There are three of each, all freshly baked while he closed the shop, and they smell  _ delectable.  _ He doesn't even know what a huckleberry is, but Chuck never fails to find new delicious ingredients to surprise him with.

Chuck places a fork next to the plate of pies, and cheerily says, "Dig in!"

Ned takes a moment, looking over each one. The blueberry, uncovered to bare the rich purple fruit, looks like the only appropriate place to start.

It's a good decision; brightness flares to life in his mouth, a perfect balance of subtle sweetness and pops of tart lemon. The pie crust is flaky and buttery, as he suspects will be the case throughout. Chuck has mastered the art of crusts, and he can't wait to get to her specialty with the fattiness lent by the cheese.

Ned steadily makes his way through the first two blueberries, and then decides to switch to huckleberry pear out of sheer curiosity. With a flavor somewhere between blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries, he's half certain that Chuck just found his new favorite fruit. That one goes down as easily as the last two, and then he moves on to peach in order to save the others for the finale.

Around the seventh miniature pie, Ned's pace slows a bit. He's starting to get full, since he hadn't exactly started on an empty stomach. But the pie is so delicious, and Chuck's eyes are shining with admiration and pride. So he keeps working his way through rich crust and gooey filling, until finally there's just one cup pie sitting there in deceptive innocence.

"It's been less than forty minutes," Chuck says, awed. Her pupils are blown wide, following his hand as he reaches up to rub at his belly. "You're incredible."

Ned can't help but blush, feeling a bit silly. Here he is, bordering on uncomfortably full, with the love of his life looking at him like he's been voted sexiest man of the year. He stifles a burp into his fist, and takes a drink of milk-- whole fat, as per Chuck's request.

Chuck makes a soft sound, and Ned tilts his head at her in concern.

"Are you alright?"

Chuck shakes her head. "I really,  _ really  _ want to touch you right now."

"I understand," Ned says, smiling. "Do you wanna get your gloves?"

Again, to Ned's surprise, Chuck shakes her head in denial. "I'm not missing a moment of this," she replies, breathily, "Think you can finish on your own?"

Ned nods, and picks up his fork. Then, rethinking, he puts it back down and picks up the pie itself. Each bite is a bit of struggle, but not as much as he'd expected. In fact, as he swallows down the last bite and feels it almost  _ thunk  _ into his stomach, part of him mourns the end of the cheesy, fruity bliss.

And then his stomach lets out a grumble of discomfort, and Ned can't help but groan. He's not as full as he's ever been-- he's shocked to realize that he could still fit more before reaching his limit. It's probably more the sheer amount of butter and sugar in there that has his stomach protesting.

Chuck beams, and reaches out to push his glass further towards him. "You finish up and I'll get the silk gloves," she says brightly.

As she gets up and hurries off to retrieve them, Ned watches fondly.

Then he obeys her not-quite order and slugs down the rest of the milk.

She really does want him big, huge even. Luckily, Ned doesn't mind.

Distantly, he wonders how much more he could eat without hitting a wall. A thrill shoots up his spine at the thought, his breath stuttering.

No, he doesn't mind one bit.

**Author's Note:**

> listen. listen, there's so much content in this show that just screams for this kink. and what can i say?? i'm a sucker for a cute chubby baker!
> 
> no but really, i just rewatched pushing daisies yet again and remembered how much i love these characters and how shamefully little i've written about them. so here we are!
> 
> i hope you enjoyed, but if it wasn't your cup of tea, fair enough! thanks for stopping by anyhow!
> 
> oh and i will probably eventually add more chapters to this, so i'm leaving it marked incomplete for now!


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